


Three Hundred and Eighty Nine

by Midknite



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Major Character Injury, Physical Disability, character death? kinda? not Marik or Bakura, character disappearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-21 02:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12448179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midknite/pseuds/Midknite
Summary: Bakura likes to count things when anxiety strikes him. Marik wishes he could take that anxiety away.





	Three Hundred and Eighty Nine

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to ChaosRocket and Sitabethel for checking this thing out. <3

The ceiling wasn't the most interesting part of Marik’s apartment- a raggedy, worn paint that was cracked here and there, some small holes that led nowhere, and the painted cable of the hanging light bulb. A small house spider lived there; some nights it would stroll around, but not tonight.

Bakura bit an uneven piece of skin on the inside of his lip, trying his best to ignore the constant noise of dripping water. He hated that stained chromium faucet. It dripped over the unwashed bowls he and Marik used for their rice, and the noise of each drop echoed against the thin walls of the small room.

_Plink_

“One hundred and three.”

He dragged himself up to take a drink from the can he'd left on the plastic bedside table hours ago. He didn’t want to drink so much that it would make him have to go to the bathroom. Even though Marik said he didn’t mind helping him out in the middle of the night, Bakura was set on never asking for more help than absolutely necessary. He let himself lie down again. Being immobilized in bed was pure hell.

Six months before, a catastrophic earthquake had shaken Domino, causing entire buildings to collapse. A piece of debris had smashed Ryou’s legs, causing  him to pass out. In the middle of the chaos Bakura had awoken like a backup system, a piece of his soul apparently having still been inside the body. And then Bakura had done what Ryou lacked the strength to do- he'd taken a piece of glass and managed to cut one of Ryou’s legs to so he could struggle free before pieces of concrete and brick rained down upon him. Bakura was lucky to be found by the rescuers.

In the aftermath, the Ishtar family had rushed to Japan to help their friends in need. Rishid had found the hospital where he was. Bakura had been succeeding in impersonating his host, but the moment Marik saw him, he knew the truth. He had kept silent about it in front of his siblings, but Bakura knew he knew. Maybe sharing a mind link could last forever.

Bakura wondered if he'd need to suffer an accident in order for Ryou to wake up; he hadn’t heard his voice during the six months since the earthquake.

_Plink_

_Plink_

Ah…whatever.

_Plink_

Anger pulsed inside his skin. It swarmed inside, the fruit of frustrated vengeance and unfulfilled wishes.  He wanted to get up and run to the desert, just walk until his sandals were red.

_Plink_

Marik had been at work for the entire day. He could spend the whole day fixing other people’s motorcycles, and yet he couldn't be bothered to fix that goddamn faucet.

_Plink_

A shadow walked from the other room towards the kitchen in the middle of the darkness. The door of the fridge opened, and the light let Bakura admire Marik, who only wore boxers at night. He looked awfully young to be in his thirties. He took the jug of milk and drank directly from it. What a blackguard.

“I drink from that milk as well, Marik.”

Marik jumped in surprise.

“…Fucking hell. Are you still awake? Why aren’t you asleep yet? It's 3:30.”

_Plink_

“Why do you think, genius? I can’t sleep.”

“When are you going to reply like a normal person?”

“I don’t know, Marik, perhaps the day you aren’t an annoyance.”

“Annoyance, am I? Who will feed your ungrateful ass when I’m gone, O Thief King?”

_Plink_

“Asshole, I can do stuff myself, you know?” Bakura put his weight on his elbows.

“Your pride can’t make new legs for you. Why don’t you try to be polite for once?”

_Plink_

“One hundred and twenty.”

“What?”

“One hundred and twenty fucking drops in the sink that are driving me mad.”

Marik stood still, processing the information for a few seconds.  Bakura had developed a compulsion to count things whenever he felt the urge to run, to walk and to move.

“I'll fix it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow. He’s going to fix it tomorrow,” Bakura grumbled to himself, reaching for his backpack that was hung on the headboard, and taking a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Not in the house.”

“You told me not to smoke when I was alone to avoid accidents, and I'm not alone, am I?” Bakura lit the cylinder and inhaled the smoke.

“What’s your fixation with smoking anyway?” Marik got near to make a pile of pillows for Bakura’s back and then sat on the bed.

“Smells like home.” Bakura smirked.

_Plink_

Marik had never understood the strange way Bakura dealt with his past. He made jokes about ghosts and haunted villages. He embraced his past, while Marik ran away from his own. Sometimes Marik felt overwhelmed by it, dragged towards it and then consumed by it, like raging waves on the beach. But Bakura? No, he would fall face first into his fears, fighting to live tooth and nail.

Marik took the cigarette from Bakura’s mouth and took a puff.

Something about Marik’s scent made Bakura take the cigarette and press it into the ashtray to put it out. He was more interested now in his companion than smoking. Marik gave him some sort of peace, even though somewhere in the back of his mind he still kept religiously counting. Bakura breathed slowly, inhaling his scent from underneath the smell of smoke; it was something musky, something primitive and untamed. Everything Bakura exuded, Marik merely hinted; it was deep inside, like a treasure waiting to be excavated.

Bakura’s favorite hobby.

_Plink_

Suddenly Bakura didn’t want to sit still anymore.

_Plink_

One drop.  One drop of sweat in Marik’s temple.

Eight. Eight perfect white visible teeth in Marik’s mouth.

Bakura absentmindedly watched the dancing shadows on Marik’s face.

“Damn you for being so good looking,” Bakura muttered.

“Is that bothering you?”

“You bother me with your very existence.”

Bakura could hear the gritting of Marik’s teeth. Bakura wondered how many disrespectful words Marik would take from any person other than him.

_Plink_

One.

“Oh, be civil.” Bakura gave a small Ryou-like smile. “You should be nice to me after I gave you my virginity.”

“We were drunk.”

“Drunk people are more honest,” Bakura said.

“Are you drunk right now?” Marik asked.

“Hmmm, no. Just an insomniac.”

The lack of sleep was making him say the things that had been screaming to burst out of his throat.

“Didn’t it feel good?” Bakura smirked.

Marik muttered something and looked away.

“Thought so.”

“I didn’t ask you to go down on me that night.”

“Wow. I'm sure you meant to say something else- let me fix that. ‘Thank you, Bakura, for putting your mouth and hands on me and making me say how much I’ve wanted this since I was a teenager.’”

“You want me to thank you for all the nights you’ve touched my dick?”

“I thought you said it was only one time,” Bakura said.

“It was only one time when we had full- you know what? Doesn’t matter, I am not playing this game with you.”

_Plink_

“You still owe me… Two hundred and thirteen.”

_Plink_

_Plink_

Fuck that sink.

Marik’s eyes went to the lumps beneath the bed. He couldn’t imagine what was like to lose the ability to walk. Even though he'd made everything in the apartment comfortable as he could, it still must have been awful. Bakura’s wheelchair was next to the bed, and his partner refused any further help. He imagined how it would be if it was the other way around- he probably would have taken the pampered king attitude and ordered Bakura around like a servant. Bakura would probably complain and yell, but he would obey, Marik was sure of it.

_Plink_

The drops were annoying even him.

“Two hundred and sixteen…”

Bakura’s compulsions bothered him as well.

“Two hundred and nineteen.”

Marik growled, wondering why it bothered him to not have Bakura's undivided attention, and wondering if there would be a time when he would be fully listened to or fully looked at.

Even if he did fix the faucet, Bakura would just move his attention to the spots on the walls or the strands in his hair. There was nothing he could do to calm Bakura's anxiety.

Marik wasn’t thinking when he reached between Bakura’s thighs. The legs beneath jerked in surprise.

“You said I owed you, Thief King.”

Bakura took a moment to recover and then flashed a grin. “I hope you’re as good as I am.”

Marik moved to sit with his back on the headboard. Bakura gave him a puzzled look, and then Marik pulled Bakura’s full body up so he was sitting on his lap.

“Wha..?” Bakura squeaked, trying to fight off Marik’s arms.

Marik placed Bakura’s body in a sitting position, right over his own hips. Bakura felt Marik’s nearly naked body underneath his and stopped struggling.

“How many?” Marik’s breath moved his hair and tickled his ear.

“What?”

“How many stupid drops on the sink?”

_Plink_

“Two hundred and twenty six..?” Bakura’s confusion grew for an instant.

A dark hand was placed on his thigh, and he felt the thin muscle flex uncertainly at the sudden gesture.

“Count the drops out loud.”

“What for? _Unh_.” Bakura always seemed so confident and unyielding, but who had known all it would take to make him falter was a hand on his crotch.

“Count if you want me to touch you, count out… loud…” Marik commanded.

Bakura’s reply was instant. “Two hundred and twenty nine.” Like hell he would miss such a chance to be pleased, and besides, he had to keep counting regardless.

Marik’s hand returned to Bakura’s thigh and slid up until it reached his hip. Slowly, it moved across the pelvis bone, reaching the end of the sheets covering Bakura’s lower half.

_Plink_

“Two hundred and thirty two,” Bakura went on.

_Plink_

Bakura’s voice grew softer when Marik started to trace the contours of his loins, making him impatient. He loved Marik’s hands, loved how they gripped, stroked and tore. Those hard-working calloused hands had stroked his shoulders before, that time when they were both drunk enough to forget being prudish.

_Plink_

“Two hundred and thirty five.”

Marik’s left hand continued to explore Bakura’s abdomen, tracing the faint bulges of the wiry muscles, and digging into the soft sides. His right hand, however, felt adventurous and skimmed over his sharp hips.

_Plink_

“Two hundred and thirty six.” Bakura inhaled sharply and his hands gripped the sheets that covered him.

Marik started slowly stroking the erection through the layers of cloth, dragging his fingers against it softly.

_Plink_

“Two hundred and forty… two.”

_Plink_

Marik’s fingers slipped under his pajama pants and gripped the tip of Bakura’s cock.

“Two hundred and fifty o… Ah!”

Marik let go instantly. “What was that?”

“Marik…”

“The number Bakura, you were counting.”

“Two hundred and fifty one!” Bakura jerked his hips slightly, to return Marik’s hand to where it was.

Marik kept his right hand wrapped around Bakura's member while his other hand caressed Bakura's taut abdomen muscles. He let the pace increase almost imperceptibly.

_Plink_

“Two h…h…hundred and eighty seven.”

Marik dragged his teeth against Bakura’s earlobe, licking it afterwards. “Keep counting, but silently.”

Bakura replied with an airy moan.  

Marik’s right hand came up to his own face and Marik licked it shamelessly. Bakura watched with his mouth ajar, barely able to remember the number he was on.

The wetness on Bakura’s cock made his eyes slide up behind his eyelids. He pushed his head back against Marik's bronze shoulder.

The pumps on his cock were languid but firm, and Marik’s left hand had stopped its ministrations to go down and help the other one rubbing his tip. Bakura started rocking forwards, wanting to make the rhythm faster.

Marik wondered if Bakura could keep counting while he was wringing the pleasure out of him.

“Bakura, what number are you on?”

_Plink_

“Mh…t- three…mh...hundred…”

Marik squeezed the tip as if it was a lime with one hand while the other stroked with a hard grip.

“Ah! Marik!”

Bakura felt impossibly hot under the sheets, feeling as if Marik was bringing his body to heights he'd never before achieved. The sound of the sink was a distant echo in his mind. He was clutching onto Marik’s arms as if he were holding on for dear life itself, and his hips were moving desperately against thin air.

Marik knew it wouldn’t last much longer, so he moved his flattened left palm in circular motions over the smooth skin of the dripping helmet of Bakura’s cock.

Bakura let out a long, throaty moan. He could feel the ghost of his toes curling up and his lower spine felt as if electricity was rippling inside.

“Marik, Marik, _Marik!”_

Marik pressed against the tip, trying to avoid as much mess as possible, as Bakura’s come flowed underneath his fist. When it was over, he cleaned his hand and Bakura with the tissues on the bedside table. Bakura just moved with him like a limp doll.

Marik gripped Bakura’s chin and turned his head to look into his glazed eyes.

“How many drops, Bakura?”

Bakura looked lost, unable to understand the question. He swallowed.

“Three hundred and…sixty...? eight?”

Marik breathed out, pleased with the progress. He could skip the next day at work, close the auto repair shop just once. Use the day to fix the sink and take Bakura on a very long ride through the city. Marik of all people knew full well what enclosure did to people.

Marik moved to a lying position. He kept on holding the man in his arms, and closed his eyes, tiredness taking him to a slight snooze.

Bakura looked at the worn out ceiling, exhausted enough to not pay attention to the details and barely able to discern its color.

He let his head rest on Marik’s chest, feeling the drumming of his heart and his even and soothing breathing.

Bakura closed his eyes, knowing he could live like this.

He could live his entire life willfully misreading their routine for happiness, their codependence for need, their fortuitous touches for tenderness…

Their sickness for love.

_Plink_

“Three hundred and eighty nine.”

  



End file.
